Another dusting of snow has hit the neighborhood.  Not sure why, but it inspires me to read poetry.  I know right, spring snow = poetry.  What’s up with that?  Maybe it’s holding on to the still, before spring in ernest pulls me back outdoors.  Yes, I struggle with productivity once the warm weather hits.  I want to get on my bike and travel down route 77 to where the air turns thick with the ocean air or sit on the beach with a book, digging my feat in the warm sand.

I’ve always admired poets.  I noticed that once again last Saturday.  I was facilitating a writing group at the library.  There were many poets in the room.  These writers created an image using sparse language in a way that I never can.  I can’t help it, I’m wordy.

I’m hoping that by reading more poetry, I can learn to edit myself.  To turn my prose into something simpler, more precise. We’ll see if it works!

TO SPRING

by: William Blake (1757-1827)

• THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down

  Through the clear windows of the morning, turn

  Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,

  Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!

  The hills tell one another, and the listening

  Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn’d

  Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth

  And let thy holy feet visit our clime!

  Come o’er the eastern hills, and let our winds

  Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste

  Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls

  Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.

  O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour

  Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put

  Thy golden crown upon her languish’d head,

  Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee